Round One
by MuseOfFire527
Summary: [Hairspray] Now with improved spelling and better grammar! This is an ongoing look at the highlights of Tracy and Link's relationship, from first dates to meeting the parents. This is how I think it all might have unfolded...
1. A Difficult Conversation

Round One:

I. A Difficult Conversation

It is all well and good, she thinks vaguely, to kiss a boy in the middle of a dance floor, under blinding lights, while a host of giddy teenagers swirl around to a killer rock and roll beat. It is another matter entirely when the last drum roll fades, the lights are turned off, the crowd has dispersed, and the dance floor has been traded for a shabby hallway behind the soundstage.

It is, in fact, a whole new kettle of fish when she finds herself sitting in a folding chair with the prized pin-up boy of every pubescent girl in Baltimore leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, wearing a decidedly dazed look and with a dreamy smile on his face.

And it's frankly ridiculous when she stops to consider that the reason for that look and that smile is herself, one Tracy Edna Turnblad.

"Beautiful," he says for what she thinks may be the eighteenth time. She is staring at the floor because if she looks up, she's more than a little afraid that he won't actually be there and this will all be revealed as a very, very elaborate fantasy. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Yeah, I think you might have said that before," she whispers to her feet. She can't help smiling. This makes him laugh. It's a good laugh, warm and genuine. Not the sort of laugh she's used to inspiring.

"I could say it every day for the rest of our lives and it wouldn't be enough, darlin'."

He crouches on the floor in front of her and, with more tenderness than anyone who isn't her parents has ever shown her, reaches out a hand and gently tilts her chin until she's looking right at him. She's heard the expression 'his heart was in eyes' before, but not until this moment has she understood what it actually meant.

"I know you don't believe me," he says. "But I'll keep saying it 'till you do. I have never, ever seen a girl look as beautiful as you did when you walked onto that stage tonight."

She realizes suddenly that he's nervous. In fact, he looks nothing short of totally terrified. The hand that rests feather-light against her face is trembling. He opens his mouth again but no sound comes out. She doesn't have any idea what she's doing, but takes his hand in both of hers and leans down toward him until their foreheads are touching.

"I couldn't have walked out on that stage if I didn't know you were out there waiting for me."

Her reward is a patented Link Larkin grin – a big, toothy smile that lights up his whole face. He pulls away a bit; the old swagger is back, and he cocks his head in a mischievous 'ah it wern't nothin' little lady' kind of way. This is the Link she knows.

It only lasts for a moment. The sun in his eyes sets as quickly as it rose. He's serious again and painfully unsure of himself. He grips her hand hard, stares off at a spot on the wall past her head and clears his throat. He has something to say, something difficult.

Her stomach drops. This is it. This is the moment where he tells her it was just the heat of the moment. The thrill of the crowd, the music, the rush of hundreds of people calling their names. He was just caught up in it all. Or maybe she'll jerk awake in her bed to the sounds of her mother hauling another load of laundry up the stairs. She steels herself for it and thinks maybe, just maybe she'll be able to keep from crying.

"I should have been there with you."

"Wha- what?"

"I should have been there, marching with you. You said it. It was what was right and I walked away. I just left you there."

She risks a glance at him. He looks wretched. His face is turning red and he's starting to sweat. She can't tell if its shame or embarrassment but it's terrible to see either way. This is not Link Larkin. The Link Larkin of her fantasies is calm, cool, the epitome of absolute perfection. He certainly does not stoop so low as to sit at the feet of a girl like her with this kind of look on his face. Then again, the Link Larkin of her fantasies could never have been as brave or daring or wonderful as he has been tonight.

She hasn't forgotten what he did when he held out his hand to Maybelle's beautiful little daughter. He's risked his entire future, pulling Inez on to that stage and flying around the dance floor with her for all of greater Baltimore to see. She can't bear for him to feel like he owes her something, or that he's let her down.

"I just walked out that door," he mumbles disparagingly. "I could hear you crying and I kept telling myself that I had to let it go, that it was for the best. But Trace?"

He glances up at her and looks all of ten years old. His eyes are very bright in the dimly-lit hallway. He's holding her hand so hard it almost hurts. She doesn't pull it away.

"What?"

"It killed me. Hearing you cry? It just killed me." He's breathing hard now. He pulls her hand against his cheek and closes his eyes. She can feel his breath against her skin, warm and fast.

She wants to tell him to stop, that it's okay, that he's more than made up for a few poorly chosen words and a brief moment of selfishness.

"I went home and I tried to just put it behind me. I tried to practice for a while. I've been working on this new move." His voice speeds up, excited. "It's like this hip swivel sort of twist thing. Like Chubby Checker but you get your arms into it to and then you sort of shak—"

"Um… Link?"

"Oh. Right. Not the point. Sorry." He runs his free hand through his hair. It's wilting a bit after a long night of dancing under hot lights. She resists the urge to push one stray curl out of his eyes, tries instead to listen to what he's saying.

"The _point_ is that I couldn't do anything. I couldn't think about anything else. I couldn't sleep, or eat, or dance. Then when I heard about the riot and the police I knew I had to find you. I ran straight to your parents. The only thing I cared about was making sure you were all right. And the whole time I was racing to get to your house all I could think was that I'd never gotten a chance to tell you how sorry I was… am."

"Hey." She reaches out and puts a shaking hand over his mouth, lets out a nervous laugh just to try to break the tension. "Hey, it's okay. Whatever else happened, you were here for me tonight. When I really needed you. You were there."

"Trace?"

"Link?"

He stands up and pulls her to her feet, still keeping her hands clasped tightly in his own. He holds them against his heart, and their faces are only inches apart.

"Trace. I'm selfish and self-centered and the only thing I've ever had to worry about is whether I had enough hairspray to get through a taping of this stupid show. But the day I saw you dancing in detention, it's like my whole world opened wide up. You hit me like a ton of bricks, babe, and it scared the hell out of me; I didn't want to admit what I was feelin'. But after tonight, I don't ever wanna go back. I can't promise that I'm always going know the right thing to say or do, but if you stick with me I swear I'll try to be better. You make me want to be better. I want to… I want to be… someone that someone like you can be proud of."

He mercifully stops talking: if he'd kept going a moment longer she really _would _have started bawling. As it is she's finding it very, very difficult to get enough air to say anything. She lets out a deep, trembling breath, takes his face firmly in her hands and says the first words that come into her head.

"Link, I'll stick with you forever."

Not quite as impressive as his speech, but it does the trick. He lets out a hiccupping laugh and throws his arms around her. Her head rests on his chest. She feels his heartbeat and the wonderful, gentle stroking of his hand through her hair.

They stand like that for minutes, hours, days – who knows? They're young and in love and the only thing that matters is holding on as long as possible.

"I'm so sorry," he says one last time.

She pulls away from him, her arms still clasped loosely around his neck. There's no mistaking the tears in his eyes. She smiles. This whole thing may be new to her, but she knows when enough is enough.

"It's all in the past. It's done. You want me to proud of you, Larkin? I couldn't be any prouder than I am right now. So can you do me a favor?"

"You want me to take you to the moon, I'll find a way to do it."

"I want you to shut up and kiss me."

There's that smile again, but it's a thousand times more beautiful when she's the one who can make him do it.

"Bossy broad," he says teasingly. He draws her back into his arms, rests his cheek against hers. And it's heaven, or very close to it.

"You'd better believe it," she whispers back.

Then it's her turn to shut up because he's kissing her like the world's about to end, and maybe, in a way, it is. The things they've done and said tonight are going to change everything. And doing the good thing, the right thing, doesn't always guarantee a happy ending. But, she thinks, if anyone deserves a shot at happily ever after, they do.


	2. Test Drive This American  Male

II. Test Drive This American Male

Their first date doesn't happen for another week. Controversy or no, the agents are impressed enough with Link to offer him a deal and he ends up spending his weekend signing contracts. More time still is spent listening to propositions for a weekly program on Baltimore cable access, where he would be offering hair styling tips and dating advice to teenage boys.

He doesn't even have the pleasure of driving her to school. Her mother insists that he come courting 'like a civilized person' before she's allowed in his car. Apparently descending on the Turnblad house like a mad man during what will come to be called "The Corny Riot of '62" doesn't count.

Link must content himself with a few stolen moments. She's become an overnight sensation; it's all he can do to snag five minutes at her locker in the morning before a pack of giggling girls descend on her. She gives him a sad smile and a shrug but he wouldn't dream of begrudging her this first chance at not only being accepted, but being genuinely liked by those around her. He watches them hover around their new queen bee and searches hard for any sign of sarcasm. But, however fawning and absurd it is, their praise seems genuine.

How can he be surprised? It's not as though he had planned to keep this wonderful girl as his special secret. But he realizes, with the tiniest twinge of jealousy, that her success and popularity will mean that he won't always have her all to himself. He contents himself with the thought that, should any admirers of the male persuasion start showing up, he is prepared to demonstrate exactly what a well-aimed can of hairspray and a lighter can do.

To her credit, Tracy's sudden rise to the top hasn't changed her a bit. In fact, all it's done is given her the chance to share the world's sunniest disposition with a wider audience. She listens with rapt attention to their questions, laughs at their jokes and offers patient, gentle advice on anything from dance moves to clothes. Then the bell rings and she catches his eye with a little wave as the mob escorts her to homeroom, chattering like a pack of barnyard hens.

Their one shared class is yet another kind of torture. She's a full three rows in front of him in history, where he's forced to sit in sweet anguish staring at the back of her head. Her beautiful, perfect head.

The best part of every day is at exactly 3:25, when the bell rings and he can sweep up the aisle, snag her hand and sail from the room. A bit of detective work has scored him the location of an empty classroom in an older part of the building. There they spend a glorious ten minutes "discussing their homework" – and then she's off for the bus, leaving him in a cloud of delirious joy and the faintest trace of rose-scented perfume.

However miserable it is to be kept away from her, it _has_ given him the chance to plan – if he does say so himself – a totally happenin' first date.

When Saturday night arrives and the clock is ticking dangerously close to the hour he's promised to arrive at Tracy's house, he can't seem to get out the door. There's a large pile of dinner jackets and suit pants littering the floor of his bedroom and he's discovered to his horror that he's down to the very bottom of his tube of hair grease. No matter how hard he tries, he can't quite maneuver his trademark curl to the right spot. James Dean would _never _have this problem over a girl. He's about ready to jump back in the shower and start all over when his mother knocks on the door and reminds him how impolite it is to keep a lady waiting.

Just the prospect of seeing her leaves a truly foolish grin plastered on his face that he just can't seem to wipe away. He fumbles with his keys and actually vaults into the driver's seat of his precious black Cadillac – not caring, for perhaps the first time in his life, whether he scratches the interior.

He can't get there fast enough. Each stoplight feels like a personal insult, a cruel attempt at keeping them apart forever. He is sorely tempted to run right over the little old lady and her teacup poodle who take a full five minutes to cross the street one block from the Turnblad apartment building. Attempting to calm down by closing his eyes and picturing her face smiling up at him doesn't help in the slightest.

But he does make it, with five minutes to spare. He takes the time to steal one last glance in the rear view mirror and try to pull himself together. Does the blue shirt really go with the tan jacket? Maybe he should have worn his suede shoes. Will she like his cologne? Is there anything left in the emergency can of hairspray in the glove box? He's got both hands grasped so tight around the steering wheel his knuckles are turning white.

Then he sees the light in the window above. He knows it's her room; he memorized its location a week ago tonight.

Through the blinds he can just make out the soft curves of her shape. She's brushing her long, beautiful hair and swaying ever so slightly from side to side. Even in shadow he could stare at her for hours. It's this vision that propels him out of the car and sends him speeding like a lightening bolt up six flights of stairs.

Before he has a chance to knock the door is flung open and Edna Turnblad is hauling him inside, her large, beefy arm locked tight around his shoulders. She's wearing a voluminous red silk bathrobe and, inexplicably, a pair of bright green bunny slippers.

"Oh, Link, it's so wonderful to see you!" She shepherds him into the crowded but comfortable living room and sits him down on the couch. There's a Count Basie record playing and the volume is cranked way up.

"Tracy will just be a few minutes more. She's been getting ready since four o'clock." With a saucy wink she twirls from the room, leaving him stunned and speechless. It's a sensation he's learning to associate with the Turnblad women. Before disappearing into her bedroom she raps her knuckles against Tracy's bedroom door and sing songs;

"Traaaacccyyyy! Your gentleman caller is here!"

The front door slams again and Wilbur Turnblad comes racing into the room. He's a far cry from the faded-looking, haggard man Link remembers seeing from a distance at the show. This guy looks pretty darn cool. He's got his hair slicked back and he's wearing a black suit with a giant white daisy in the lapel. He stops short when he sees Link on the couch.

"Don't suppose you've seen the little woman hangin' around have ya?"

Wordlessly, Link points down the hall. Wilbur claps his hands together and licks his lips. With a loud whoop he scampers off and into their bedroom.

"C'mon, baby! The night's young even if you're not!" There's an audible shriek from the bedroom and the unmistakable sound of a slap followed by loud laughter. Link smoothes the lapels of his jacket and wishes he'd thought to bring a comb.

Another door opens and he hears the unmistakable sound of her step coming down the hall. She comes into the doorway and he gulps for breath, mouth suddenly bone dry.

Her hair falls in a wave around her shoulders, pulled back from her forehead with a silver clip. Her face is painted with the lightest shade of pink lipstick and rouge, just enough to make it look like she's blushing. He stands up as she enters the room and opens and closes his mouth several times.

"Dress… uhh… nice…. it's a nice dress." His voice comes out in croak.

"Thanks."

She's wearing a blue dress made out of several layers of light, airy material. The skirt flows around her legs as she walks toward him. It's caught around the bust with a dark blue ribbon and, being a teenage boy, he has to concentrate very hard to keep looking at her face.

He's about to start over with something a little more clever (or at least closer to a complete sentence), but they're interrupted again by the crash of yet another slamming door and loud guffawing as both parents thunder back into the room. Tracy grabs his hand. The feel of it in his goes a long way to restoring his confidence.

"Well, it looks like you two are all ready to go, " Edna coos. She's changed into a sparkling, sequined black gown with a dangerously low-cut neckline that's accentuated by the huge gold chain around her neck. There is a purple rose pinned in her hair. She lets out a squeak as Wilbur wraps an arm around her waist and hugs her to him.

"Got a big night planned kids?" he waggles his eyebrows at Link who is beginning to think he'll just have to get used to his face being a permanent shade of red.

"Ma! Would you control him please?" Tracy has a disgusted look on her face but she's clearly trying very hard not to laugh out loud. She sneaks a wink at Link and, hands on her hips, addresses her parents.

"Now Wilbur," says Tracy cheekily. "I don't want you keeping her out till all hours. This is a Christian household and no mother of mine is going to look like a tramp in front of the neighbors coming in at all hours of the night. Is that clear?"

"Oh, very funny Miss Turnblad," her mother says, but Wilbur snorts with glee and slaps his thigh.

"I dunno. This woman can be a real wild cat once you get her going…" Edna smacks his arm.

"Honestly, between the both of you it's a wonder the neighbors _aren't _talking!"

She smoothes down the sides of her dress and gives Link an appraising look.

"I trust our Tracy will be safe in your hands Mr. Larkin?"

At last, territory he's familiar with!

"Gosh yes, Mrs. Turnblad. I'll take good care of her."

"I'm glad to hear it. I know this is a special night for you both, so we're going to make a little exception with Tracy's curfew. She may stay out until midnight tonight. Just this once, so don't think about making it a habit."

Her vice-like grip on his hand conveys that Tracy is as elated by this news as he is. Five completely uninterrupted hours together!

"I can promise she won't be one minute later than midnight, Mrs. Turnblad. Wouldn't want Cinderella turning into a pumpkin, now would we?"

Edna giggles girlishly and waves them toward the door.

"Get out of here you two, and have a good night."

Needing no other invitation, Link leads Tracy out the door. They run down the stairs together, hand in hand. Once they're safely in the car he collapses against the seat and lets out the loudest sigh he's ever uttered.

"I wasn't sure I was gonna make outta there alive, baby doll."

"Aww, poor kid." She sidles over to him, laying her head on his shoulder. He puts an arm around her and kisses the top her head.

"I got something special planned for you tonight," he whispers.

"Well then let's get this show on the road, Mr. Heartthrob."

"You are gonna get it one of these days, Ms. Turnblad."

"Promise?" she giggles, tickling his ribs with one hand. He bats her away and they peel off into the night, their laughter soon lost in the hustle and bustle of a Baltimore Saturday night.


End file.
